On the Good Ship Lollipop
by Darkness scribe
Summary: Pirate AU. She was ripped away from home, beaten, and treated like an animal. But such was the life of a newly captured slave, Marceline found. The months spent aboard the ship are a personal hell, but little did she know it would get much worse when a crew of pirates raid the slave ship. Inspired by the artwork of Futagosa, on tumblr.
1. Fair Winds a Blowin'

Planks creaked with the rocking of the ship, as if the very foundations of the vessel were bemoaning the voyage she sailed. The massive ship cut through the early morning fog sitting lazily atop the surface of the water as she carried herself towards her final destination: the Fire Kingdom. Many months she had been at sea, her crew searching for the Treasure of the South, finding it, and loading the hull to the brim with it.

The skipper rose that morning, calculating to himself how many days he was to spend at sea before he returned home, roused the crew, and whisked himself off into the galley, where he grabbed the old burned and stale loaves of bread that sat on the counter for the animals in the hull. Only two loaves today. The damned things won't get much. With bread in tow, the skipper swaggered his way onto the main deck. He was greeted by the crisp salty air of the roaring ocean, and gave a small smile as he went about his next task: waking the working part of the livestock. Down the hatch he went, into the bowels of the ship where the precious cargo was stored. Immediately his nose was greeted by the foul smell of bodies pushed too closely together, laying beside, on top, and under one another, sitting in their own waste and filth. The stench of slaves. His mellow demeanor was suddenly stripped from his face as he snarled and tossed the hard loaves into the middle of the group, waking the captives from a night of fitful sleep.

"Wake up, you filthy beasts." He bellowed. Kicking those closest to him to rouse them from their positions on the floor. "Workers, on your feet. Get up!" His tirade continued as many of the prisoners hauled themselves off the grungy floor, the shackles binding their wrists jangling listlessly as they stood. The weary shells stumbled into a line before the scowling skipper, awaiting the verbal abuse and list of tasks they were to complete that day. The list was practically memorized by the slaves now: Remove the dead and toss the bodies into the sea, scrub the deck, work the lines and sails, the women would mend nets, clothing and sails, while others performed meaningless tasks of manual labour, and some of the unluckiest young women found themselves being dragged off to the Captain's quarters. Day after day these torments continued, the uprooted natives finding each day a struggle as they made their way towards a new "life" in a "More civilized world." They all longed to return to their lives back in the village, to the peaceful time before the cinnamon skinned strangers invaded and took the children and younger adults. Night after night, the group was haunted by the memory, but none more so than the only daughter of the tribe's Chief; Marceline Abadeer, known to the slaving crew as No. 297, evident by the number carved into the underside of her left forearm, marring the tattoo that distinguished her as not only royalty, but a warrior.

Bitter thoughts drifted through her head as she raised her dark gaze to meet that of the skipper, making an attempt to prove to him that she wasn't afraid. He merely sneered back, as he barked out the order to remove the dead and moved on down the line.

Three had died overnight: two men in their thirties, and a little girl no older than twelve. A few slaves had hefted the remains of the men, and began carrying them up onto the deck to toss the carcasses with what little dignity remained, but Marceline hesitated as she took in the sight of the girl before her; a portrait of all those who sat in the hull of that damned ship. Sun darkened skin stretched over a frame of bones, with little between the two, leaving the tailored sack that was uniform to all to hang loosely off the child's body. Biting back tears, Marceline remembered just a month ago when the rough cloth fit all the natives quite well, save for a few tears, hugging their bodies softly without showing too much skin. But now, the wretched souls could feel the damp air biting their skin through garments that barely stayed on; even the princess of the people had lost significant weight and tone, her only muscle definition coming from hours and hours of labour.

Marceline picked up the child's body and hugged it close to her chest, as she crouched on the floor and muttered a prayer to the Gods for the child's spirit. Sorrow gripped the young woman's heart, her knees finding the task of righting herself near impossible. What felt like an eternity passed, before the coarse voice of the skipper interrupted her thoughts. "Get up." He growled. But Marceline made no movement. "Get up, and toss it overboard." The skipper snarled again, but the woman made no indication of hearing him. Fed up with the lack of respect, the man reached out and took a handful of the wild black mane that adorned Marceline's head, and wrenched the girl onto her feet. "I said, get up." He barked, tobacco heavy breath invading the slave's nostrils. With a snarl of her own, Marceline looked back at the man, before turning on her heel and walking up the stairs to the main deck.

Harsh sunlight berated her eyes as Marceline stepped onto the deck, not having seen actual daylight for quite some time. Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward, head held high, and carried the child to the edge of the ship, all the while chanting under her breath a song traditionally sung at the burials of warriors, which is exactly what this little girl was. Along the way, some captives heard the voice of their princess and joined in with the durge, showing respect for the fallen, and an air of rebellion against their captors. But of course, the skipper would have none of it, shouting for the natives to stop, which was effective against all but their leader. The young woman's voice continued it's mission, until the small corpse had landed in the tide below, and the skipper's flail found purchase against the flesh of Marceline's back.

Her knees crumpled beneath her as the jagged leather bit and lashed deep into the muscles, and she barely caught herself on the railing of the ship, a cry of pain caught in her throat. Marceline shot a snarl at the skipper over her bloodied shoulder, the man returning the look with an icy glare as he raised the cat-o-nine-tails above his head and brought it down for another swift strike, wrapping around the forearm that was raised to block it. Seeing an opportunity for more damage, the skipper gave the whip a hearty tug and sent the girl flying into his knee, her stomach taking the brunt of the force. Marceline fell to the ground out of breath and cradling her sore belly, when the skipper spat on her and threw a mop down before her.

"Get to scrubbing." He sneered. "The whole ship, all by your lonesome. Now get to it." The girl pulled herself off the deck and took up the mop, resigning herself to work, however labouriously slow her injuries caused her to move.

Morning fog soon burned off to reveal the endless sea, and a lone ship off in the distance: an old looking Galleon, about the same size as the slaving vessel. Marceline absently noted the ship, overhearing one of the crewmen speaking to the navigator about the inbound ship. "It's a trade ship, apparently." The navigator had said, peering through his spyglass, "The flag's from the kingdom in the Canyon. Must be out trading wares. You think they got more tobacco?" He said to the sailor. Marceline just scoffed as she continued to make her way across the large ship, rolling her shoulders as sun dried blood flaked off, and needles of pain worked their way across the entirety of her back. The lashes were deeper this time, scoring rips in the flesh near an inch deep; twice as deep as the normal lashings she would receive for her rebellious spirit. But just as the sun kept beating down upon the young woman's shoulders, she kept mopping the deck, hissing to herself every time a sailor would come by and spit his tobacco onto the planks where she had just finished cleaning. Hours passed and her work continued, and the Canyon Kingdom's ship came nearer and nearer, the captain thinking of doing some business deal with the traders.

The ship finally began to draw close enough to start communication between the two vessels, and Marceline noticed something slightly off about it, but let the thought pass in a wave of apathy. A single young man stood on the foremost deck, just above the bowsprit. He was a clean looking young man, who spoke politely when the navigator called across to grab his attention. Indeed they were traders, and were willing to strike up a deal between the two ships, and both ship's captains were soon making their way to the side of the ships to negotiate prices.

Captain James Lich strode out of his cabin, a tall man with a hunched frame covered in yellowing skin. He was a rather sickly man, his weight had wasted away into the walking corpse we was now, much like the unfortunate souls he transported. The other captain was a bulky man, in his twenties, blond hair and scraggly beard making him look like more of a seaman than his young attendant.

"We got slaves." The captain said, his gaunt face twisting into a wry smirk. "just bits of meat we can spare." He offered.

"Not sure I'd want slaves," the Canyon Captain returned pensively, a slight look of disgust marring his youthful face. "How many barrels of ale you have aboard? And I would also be willing to exchange goods for money, gold specifically."

"I don't know about gold." Lich rasped, but their rations were running thin, and the hunger for more of the leaves ran rampant through the crew irritation and brawls sometimes taking over the better judgement of the men. "But we have many other things to offer…" he trailed off, hoping to spare his precious money.

"Mind if we come aboard and take a look?" The younger captain asked, ever polite.

"Well, I can't see the harm in that. See if you find something worth your time." Lich muttered, stepping aside to allow the captain aboard. With a slight grin, the blond man gave a single order to his crew.

"You heard 'im boys, the nice man invited us on his ship!" In the space of three seconds, the empty deck was crowded by scraggly looking sailors jumping the distance between the ships or dashing across planks that had been rapidly tossed across the breach. This could only mean one thing: _Pirates. _

Marceline had watched this all happen from afar, and was soon adrift in a sea of bodies shouting and waving around weapons. Immediately she launched into the combat style her father had spent years pounding into her body, for when she would lead the warriors of her tribe into battle, as was the custom of the Chief's firstborn. Her mop quickly became a dangerous weapon, much like the spear she would carry at home, but instead of obsidian lining the edges of one end, a sopping bludgeon adorned it. She took no sides, but instead struck at anyone who got too near for her comfort. Men were dropping around her, stunned that such a scrawny girl could hold so much power behind her strikes. Swords were knocked away, and blunderbuss muzzles slapped down before they could be fired, and the mop head made itself well acquainted with the guts of pirates and slavers alike. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed an intimidating looking pirate, eyeing her with interest. Snarling, she knocked down all in her way, sending a message to the pirate who was watching. The scoundrel just smirked, grabbed one of his brethren by the shoulder, and made a small gesture, words lost over the shouting and chaos that surrounded the slave. Marceline's observer merely walked away, but the crewmate they had talked to, the polite young man from the deck, began making his way towards her, swerving around people as they fought with surprising speed. Making a small note of the boy's speed, she readied herself to defend against whatever attacks he may pull. What she wasn't expecting, was the shout he gave as he charged, and the blow that followed swiftly from behind, landing across the gashes across her back, freshly opened from the exertion of fighting. The pain was immediate and shocking, knocking Marceline off her balance enough to drop her defense in time for the boy to bash his skull into her chest, sending her reeling back into the arms of his partner. The grip was iron tight, and just under her arms, allowing her just enough room to maneuver her legs up and around her captor's neck, the shock of such a move weakening the hold on her arms enough to wrench them out of his grasp. She hauled herself up onto his shoulders, and absently noted on the way up that it was the storming captain who held her, before she righted herself on his shoulders just behind his head, thighs clamped tight around the man's neck. Arching backwards, she tipped the man back enough that his massive size pulled him the rest of the way towards the deck. Marceline detached just in time to drop to the deck and roll out from under the falling behemoth, but just as she thought she was in the clear, a boot met the back of her skull, slamming her into the deck. Dazed, Marceline felt herself being hefted up, and vaguely heard what sounded like a call to retreat. The world still spun as she kicked and flailed to escape the grasp of the burly blond that held her, but he never let her go as he crossed the gangplank back onto his own ship. She thrashed and snarled and foamed, but the man refused to budge, the grip becoming more and more constricting as she squirmed, much like a python.

"What'cha got there, Jake?" someone shouted, followed by a chorus of other jeers. "Take a little prize for yourself there, did ya?" The man called again. But the man carrying Marceline (Jake, apparently,) shook his head and kept walking.

"Where's the cap'n?" Jake boomed. Marceline for her part, had given up struggling, giving into the grasp of the fake captain, and surrendering to the burning sting lancing across the back.

"Here." Came an oddly feminine voice behind him. Jake turned to reveal the same pirate who had been eyeing Marceline during the fight, apparently the captain. But, they couldn't be the captain. The captain couldn't be a woman, could they? Apparently this one was.

She was moderately tall, but exuded a regal air that made her seem much bigger than she was. Small scars littered across a heart shaped face, which still retained a sense of beauty, framing a nose that had obviously been broken at least once, set between gunmetal blue eyes that commanded respect and fear. But what struck the captive slave the most was the flaming red hair that hung down past the woman's shoulders in dreadlocks. The woman was truly an intimidating presence before the warrior princess, but she still raised her gaze to meet that of the captain.

"Good work boys." The woman chimed, never taking her gaze from her captive's face as she sauntered over to where they stood, taking Marceline's jaw in a calloused hand. "A real pretty one we got here." She muttered, turning the face in her grasp to get a good look from every angle. Marceline would have none of that though, her nose curling up in a snarl as she bared her teeth to the woman, her canines filed into slight points when she came of age: a tradition of warriors in the tribe. This didn't deter the woman holding her face, as she just continued taking in the features of her lean and angular face and the brown eyes that winked with crimson when the light flashed across them, showing the courage, intelligence and strength that lied within the lithe woman. Her snarling warning having not been heeded, Marceline upped her threat and snapped her teeth at the hand holding her jaw, only to have the back of the same hand strike across her face, a gash forming below her left eye where the captain's rings bit into the skin and tore it. But the captain just laughed, as though some joke had just been told.

"Feisty!" She exclaimed, still laughing. "I like it. She'll fit in nicely, once she learns her place."

"You can go fuck yourself." Marceline spat at the woman. "I am not going to be your damned slave." But the other woman just chuckled again.

"She speaks!" The woman jeered, her crew around her laughing. "Now now, sweetheart. Who said anything about being a slave? You're part of my crew now, so you'd better get used to it, darling."

"I am not joining your crew." the slave snarled. "Just kill me already and get it over with."

"What a waste that would be! I saw the way you fought back there, and I decided that I simply _must_ have you for myself. A good addition to the crew, and indeed you will be. We just have to break you in first. I promise you, eventually you'll see things my way, and soon you'll be honoured to sail under the name of Captain Bonnibel Bachmann, Queen of the High Seas." With that, she gave two quick pats to Marceline's cheeks, before barking out an order. "_Earls!_ Take our friend here to the brig, and do make sure she's comfortable." Two identical, scrawny, bald men with dramatically long noses came scrambling forth at their captain's request. "I have a feeling she'll be there for quite some time. You know the rules: No killing, minimal maiming, and don't let her go 'til she says 'I do.'" With that, she turned from the slave and sauntered away, hips swinging as she walked, and Jake turned with her still in his arms, and followed the two bean-poles into the bowels of the ship to face her reckoning.


	2. The Devil Down Below

Clinking chains and burning arms were the first thing Marceline registered as she woke up, vaguely remembering where she was and why. The two scrawny men that led Jake into the empty brig three decks down, had her chained to opposite walls by her wrists, letting her kneel in the center of the small wooden cell. As Jake walked out of the cell, he looked back over his shoulder with an expression that seemed almost pitying. "The Cap'n's waiting for you to join. The sooner, the better. That's all I'll tell you." With that, the burly blond was replaced by the two sneering men, their shrill voices filling the small space.

"Hmmmmmm," One muttered to his cohort, "What do you think, brother? What method should we start with?"

His brother, garbed in a grungy white tunic, looked at their prisoner and stroked his chin. "I think, brother, that starvation would be the best option." An equally nasal voice answered the first. "That is normally the easiest way to break them."

"But this one is already so thin. Will starving it work?"

"Surely it must! Being so thin, it must be starving already. Breaking will be a short process." The white one assured his brother, dressed in a black tunic.

"But brother, would it not speed up the process to also add confinement to the proceedings?" The black one chimed.

"Hmmm…" Came the sharp trill of his brother. "Most certainly, yes. That is… hmmm… _acceptable._" With that, he turned to the chained slave and addressed her directly. "You will remain here until you join our crew." Marceline flinched at the grating tone, lifting her eyes up to meet the beady pairs her captors possesed.

"And if I don't want to join your damn crew?" The question was quiet but carried regal authority. It caught the brothers off guard to be questioned so directly, but their air of superiority was quickly recovered.

"You will join!" The one in white shrieked.

"Or you will face reconditioning!" The black clad brother followed shortly, screeching at the same volume. With one final shout of "reconditioning" in unison, the strange men left the cell, slamming the door heavily as they went.

Left in solitude, Marceline sagged against her bindings, the adrenaline from the battle wearing off and leaving limbs aching and the searing pain in her back resurfaced. The wounds had opened up in her fight against the marauders, blood now trickling down her spine and legs in sticky rivulets. With a sigh, she looked about, noting the lack of portholes or any other source of external light; a single oil lantern served as the only illumination in the musty brig. The splintered boards of the walls and floor creaked as their forms rubbed against themselves, warped from exposure to salt and water. And was that blood on the walls? Overall, the brig mirrored the hull of the damned slaving ship; it was just as dim, cramped, and stuffy as the equatorial sunlight hit the sides of the ship, the natural humidity adding to the discomfort. Suddenly, Marceline was transported back to the slave ship, images flashing before her eyes as she recalled the similarities.

Bodies pressed together. The stench of death. The weight of three men pressed on top of her slim form as the slaves were piled into the hull. Her breathing spiked sharply as she pulled against her chains, trying to escape the memories.

Distraction. She needed a distraction. Stories. Those would help, the stories she would tell to the children of the tribe at nights when they wheedled her for hours, before she would give into their pleas with a joking scowl. Blinking back tears at the thought of the home she'd never see again, she took a breath and began muttering the stories to herself, tremulous voice solidifying into a calm mask as she continued.

Hours passed, and Marceline cycled through story after story. Tales of a princess and a great blood sucking demon she enslaved through cunning and magic, an old witch-doctor who brought snow to the mountains, and stories of creation filled the void; all told in a trance-like state, before the warrior princess nodded off into a fitful sleep, still kneeling on the floor, held up by her wrists.

Her dreams were filled with fire and screaming as she watched the sacking of her village over and over again, just like every night that passed since she was ripped away from home. It was always a blur of oranges and reds as houses were lit ablaze, people killed and hauled out to the beach like animals. In the middle of it all stood Marceline, powerless like always to stop the violence and protect her people, her family. She looked down at her hands when a burning sensation erupted about her wrists, as if they were being shorn open by jagged teeth of metal. Shackles held her hands together before her, chains attaching them to the torturously heavy iron ring about her neck. Screaming resounded in her ears, growing to a fever pitch as it increased in tenacity, echoing about her skull and drowning out any thought.

Marceline jolted awake, pulling against the chains, startled to consciousness by her own voice screaming out. Chest heaving, she could feel the sweat dripping from her face and every limb on her person. The burning in her wrists persisted, and she looked over to see raw, weeping wounds ripped into the flesh beneath the shackles by her thrashing in her sleep. With the ambient temperature, infection was sure to set in beneath the metal cuffs, and an uncomfortable rash was blossoming beneath the iron collar she still wore, the perspiration only furthering the irritation. While the wounds on her back had crusted over, the constant burning throb spoke of an infection already in process. Letting out a heavy sigh, the woman allowed the realization that she would most likely die in this small cell, killed by infection and not by a foe in battle, a far more honourable death worthy of her status as a warrior.

Marceline gave a sigh of resignation and let her head drop down and allowed her fate to wash over her, exhaustion gnawing at her bones. She had truly given up on any hopes of being free again in this life. It was simply too sweet a dream for her to grasp. The lamp in the corner sputtered out as the chained warrior gave in to sleep, vaguely noting how dry and thick her tongue and throat felt.

She slept for what felt like hours, but for all she knew, it may have been mere minutes she was asleep or a full day. The lack of sunlight destroyed any shred of hope of telling time as she faded in and out of cognizance. Hunger clawed at her insides, twisting into a painful knot beneath skin already stretched too tight across ribs and jutting bones. Marceline could feel of the fever that radiated through her form, paired with the intense humidity of the cell, making consciousness an unsavoury state of existence. Allowing herself to slip back under the thick blanket of sleep, Marceline grinned weakly to herself. Maybe she won't wake up again? Maybe she can finally be rid of these terrible ships, and join her beloved mother in the 50th deadworld.

Floating. She was floating. Floating in a sea of nothing, and the sensation was _utter bliss._ No heat, no pain, no shackles or collars, no screaming. All was calm and right. Marceline let herself soak in the sheer nullity of the void as she drifted, a faint smell catching her attention. Spicy, yet floral, with just a hint of earth. The smell of her mother. The young woman was finally rejoining her mother. Tears welled up in her eyes as the scent became stronger, a slight light appearing. Then suddenly, everything was wet.

Eyes snapped open to find themselves back in the brig, chained to the walls, and dripping wet. Water dripped off her face as she frantically tried to lick it off her lips, animalistic instinct taking over and driving her to survival. A slight chuckle registered in her ears, but she was too far gone to notice who laughed. Her mind rushed with the thought of water. Glorious water. A gift from the Gods. Precious, beautiful, blessed _water. _

Something cool pressed against her chapped lips, and her mouth was flooded with the cool wetness. She drank greedily, straining against her chains when the vessel was removed, a pleading whine pulling itself from her throat in a blind haze. Seconds later, the sensation was back, rivulets streaming down her chin as Marceline pressed herself further into the cup. It was sweet relief to feel the liquid sliding down her raw throat, splashing into her stomach, suddenly reminding the woman how empty it was.

"Easy there," A voice, called from beside her. "Or you'll get sick." But the admonishment was too late. Her shoulders lurched as her body rebelled, expelling the water and what little bile her sunken stomach could spare. "Geez, I told you so." The voice chided as Marceline coughed and gagged, her frail body wracked by dry heaves.

Her world spun as her body calmed down enough for her ears to pick up the sound of a match being lit, and the room was flooded with light from the freshly lit lamp. Marceline hissed in pain as her pupils contracted, unused to the light. As they adjusted, she focused on the figure before her, burgundy eyes shining with fever. There stood a boy, with wild blond hair, baring a grin full of missing teeth. He couldn't be any older than fourteen.

"So you're finally up!" He cheered, boisterous voice filling the small room. "I was worried there for a minute you were gone! That'd really tick off the Cap'n. She really wants you to join the crew. Said there was somethin' about you she-"

"I won't join you." Marceline's ragged voice cut off the boy. "I don't want anything to do with you. Any of you. Just leave me to die."

"What? No!" the boy shouted. "It's not that bad! I promise! Cap'n's really nice, you'd like 'er! Please, don't just give up?" But his pleading was for naught. Marceline just ignored his babbling, letting her head hang and tried to go back to that void of absence. Sure enough, she fell into sleep, but did not enter the void again.

Again, she was tormented by memories, her fever bringing her back to the slave ship. The man on top of her died in the night. Three days she lay under him. He made a small splash when she threw him. Keila, her best friend was pulled up onto the deck. Crying and grunts travelled into the hull. Lashes burned against her back. Screaming. So much screaming.

The creaking of the cell door roused her, as the burly blond man, Jake, entered, keys in hand.

"The Cap'n wants to see ya'. Told me to bring ya' to 'er." He muttered warily, as he fit the key into the shackle on her right arm, the cuff snapping open and letting the trapped girl slump to the floor, still suspended by the other wrist, the cuff seeming too large around the raw and gaunt appendage. The other binding opened with a click, sending the emaciated figure into a heap on the floor, arms screaming in relief to be freed from their awkward position. Jake bent down and grabbed the woman beneath her arms, hefting her up and onto unsteady feet. "Let's go." He said gruffly, and led her out of the brig and up the stairs to the next deck. Marceline stumbled alongside the man, legs as shaky as those of a newborn deer. Up two more flights of stairs, and the pair were on the main deck under the night sky, moving towards the Captain's cabin at the stern of the ship. Jake raised a meaty fist to knock on the door, and after receiving an affirmative, opened it, and shoved the slave into the cabin.

"Welcome." Came a feminine voice from behind Marceline. She turned, and seated at a short table on a pile of cushions rested the captain of the ship, Bonnibel Bachmann. "Come, sit down!" She said cheerfully, gesturing to a cushion across the table. Atop the table sat a massive spread of food; meats and breads, cheeses and fruits sat on silver trays, illuminated by the oil lamps in sconces around the room. Warily, Marceline approached the table and sat upon the cushion, never breaking eye contact with the woman before her. The women sat in silence for a minute, before the captain spoke up again.

"I do believe you have had ample time to consider my offer?" She asked calmly, a grin sneaking across her face as she reached out to take a chunk of meat, the smell making the slave's mouth water. "I do hope you have come to a conclusion." But Marceline remained strong.

"No." was the only answer the captain received, and her grin faltered.

"No?" Bonnibel parroted, mildly shocked.

"No. I won't join your crew. I don't want to spend the rest of my life on a damned ship."

"Well that's such a shame! I had such high hopes for you." The pirate muttered through a mouthful of food. "I saw you fighting on the ship, and just _knew _I had to have you for myself. You're sure you don't want to join?"

"I am no plaything." Marceline spat, anger and fever making the room spin. "I want nothing to do with you savages!"

"Don't be so sure of that." The captain laughed as she wiped her hands on her breaches, standing up and moving about the cabin. "I'm sure there's something you want. Everyone wants something. Money? Power? Fame?" taking a step closer to the girl with every question, moving like a cat stalking a mouse. "Or is it land, hmmm?"

"I want nothing from you." Marceline replied through laboured breaths, eyes still glued to the spot where the other woman was previously seated, her face a stoic mask. "I will not join you." But Bonnibel just kept pushing, edging her way closer to the slave.

"But surely there has to be something you want. I can give you anything your little heart desires." The woman stopped her pacing right behind Marceline, and crouched down to her level. "Knowledge?" She questioned, placing her hands on bony shoulders. "Maybe even pleasure?" She purred in the slave's ear.

"I am not some animal." Marceline growled, only to be answered with a soft chuckle as a hand slid down her left arm and grabbed her wrist, turning the underside up.

"This number begs to differ."

Bonnibel's nose was suddenly met by the back of Marceline's head, as the slave smashed her skull back in retaliation to the comment. Blood gushed from the captain's nose as she gripped it with one hand to staunch the flow, the other reaching for something at her side. In one quick movement, she had pulled Marceline back into her chest, the barrel of a pistol pressed into the underside of the slave's chin. "Oh that was a bad idea, girly." Bonnibel spat, voice muffled by the hand holding her nose. "Keep this up and I'll end you right now." The statement accented with the click of a hammer being cocked. Marceline just smiled.

"Finally something I want." She muttered, and bells went off in the captain's brain. "Go ahead. Kill me. It's better than anything I could receive." Silence flooded the cabin in the wake of the statement.

"I'll give you one last option." Came the voice of a much calmer Bonnibel. "Join the crew, and you can have your freedom." Now that made Marceline freeze.

"Freedom?" She asked quietly.

"Yes, freedom. Just what any little slave wants. Ten years on this ship, belonging to me as a member of my crew, and I'll set you free. Free to do as you please."

"You mean, I could return to my village?" The slave asked, finding the first glimmer of hope she had felt in what seemed like an eternity.

"Sure." Bonnibel cooed. "I'll even take you there. Ten years, and you're free to leave."

"Five." Marceline mumbled. "Five years." At this, the pirate grinned.

"Five years?" Bonnibel chuckled."That's quite a small number. I don't think five years with you would possibly be long enough for all the plans I have. Besides, you forget who's in charge of this situation." a slight nudge of the pistol beneath Marceline's chin served as a reminder of her position before the marauder.

"Fine." Came the hushed accordance. The captain released the slave, and returned to her seat across the table, with the same proud grin she sported when Marceline had first entered the cabin.

"Ten years it is, then." And she extended a pale, scarred hand towards the scrawny woman, who hesitantly reached out and grasped it. "What's the name?" Questioned the captain.

"Marceline, from tribe Abadeer." She returned, remembering the pride she carried with her title and lifted her chin. Bonnibel's grin only widened further.

"Welcome aboard, Marceline Abadeer."


	3. Old Man of the Sea

With one handshake, Marceline's fate and future were sealed. She had just sold the next decade of her life to a woman of questionable morals, who had her chained and starved in the belly of the ship, and was now smiling at the slave like a child with a new toy. And frankly, that scared her. She was the next in line to lead a powerful tribe of warriors, she had fought in brutal tribal wars, and she had killed men just for crossing her. And now she _belonged _to someone. She was _property _of the woman before her. Once a slave, always a slave, and _sweet grods of the sea she was hungry. _The rush of the "negotiations" having left her, Marceline felt her world spin as the starvation, fever, and pain came back full-force, causing her to crumble into herself.

"Ah, that's right." Her captain muttered. "You should probably go see the doctor. _Jake!_" She called, not even bothering to get up. The burly man opened the cabin door and poked his shaggy head in. "Take our new crewmate down to see Simon, will ya? Be careful with her too, she's not doin' so hot." and with a dismissive nod, Bonnibel returned to her meal.

Jake stepped forward to help the gaunt woman stand, but she slapped his hands away, and steeled herself as the floor shifted under her while she stood. He followed her as she tottered out the door without sparing a glance at the woman behind them. Once the pair was out on the deck, away from the eyes of their captain, Marceline's legs buckled, sending her crashing down to be caught by Jake. Throwing her arm over his shoulders, he righted the ailing woman.

"Whoa, you really aren't doin' good." He murmured, "Take it easy there, yeah?" But Marceline just shoved herself away from him, wobbling slightly.

"Why would you care?" She spat, not wanting to be coddled.

"Well, we're crewmates now, and I figure we should ya know. Kinda look out for eachother?"

"Thank you for your _concern_, but I can look after myself." Marceline retorted indignantly, taking one shaky step after the other, before her knees collapsed and sent the invalid sprawling across the deck. Jake took a deep, steadying breath and walked over to where the woman lay struggling to get up, and hefted her up into his arms. Ignoring her feeble struggling, he made his way down below the deck and through the corridors beneath.

"Lady, I'd suggest you stop squirmin'." Jake advised amicably. "You got what looks like a nasty infection. I ain't no doctor, but I don't think that's good for ya." Soon, Marceline's movements stilled, replaced by heavy gasping as she tried to regain her breath. "See what I told ya?" the blond man scolded. "Four days in the brig with no food or nothin'll knock you on your buns. But it's okay, the Ice King'll patch ya up real good."

"Ice King?" Marceline asked coldly, still refusing to be friendly with the man who carried her.

"Yeah, he's the doc on the ship. Kinda crazy, and for some reason the sick bay's always cold. So we just call 'im the Ice King. Sorta rules things down there."

For the rest of the trip, Marceline remained silent, trying to take note of the passages in the ship, but found herself slipping into unconsciousness as the trip wore on. Jake eventually reached his destination, and the woman in his arms was roused by a chill in the air. She could vaguely make out the shape of a few beds and tables in the dim lamplight that permeated the space. Jake hollered into the room, and Marceline faintly registered the shuffling of feet. She could feel sleep calling to her again, and just before she succumbed to the siren call, she heard Jake mutter to her something along the lines of "He'll take good care of you, don't worry" and felt her weight shifted from the man's arms to some thinner form of support, and finally came to rest on what felt like a table. By then, Marceline was too far under to comprehend what was happening, and resigned herself to sleep.

She was back in that void of nothing, but never really noticed it. Time was a slew of blurred images, cold hands, and a cracking nasally voice. A shadow would loom over her when she drifted into consciousness, and something cold was pressed to her forehead. On occasion, a cool hand would lift her head and shoulders to raise a cup of water to her lips and help her drink, pausing when she would choke and splutter in her thirsty haste. Her wrists and back ceased to ail her, and resting became a peaceful ordeal when she would slip back into the nothing.

Finally Marceline woke to full awareness, albeit slightly groggy. Her eyes cracked open, free from the shining glaze of fever, and focused on the planks above her, body rocking with the movement of the ship. Limbs tingled as she moved them, bringing her left hand in front of her face to inspect it. White gauze wrapped around her wrist, covering the angry red wounds inflicted by the shackles. Opening and closing her hand, she deduced there had been no serious damage to the ligaments in her hand and arm, barring the dull protests that the raw flesh made. The next check was the rash on her neck from the slavers' collar, and found it also bound, but felt no pain upon touching the area. Arms dropped back to her side, and she took a deep breath and tried to push herself up onto her elbows. But of course, the torn flesh of her back had other ideas on the motion.

A pained grunt passed her lips as the healing tissue on her back and shoulders pulled, elbows collapsing beneath her and flopping back onto what felt like a straw stuffed mattress.

"Whoa there!" Came the same nasal voice from her intermittent wakings, and the sound of footsteps hurried to the bedside. She focused on an older man, his pale skin sagging on his face in shadows of years spent smiling and laughing. Blue eyes studied Marceline's form with a look of professional concern, scanning for any open wounds, and the man smiled after finding none. "I wouldn't be movin' so fast there, little lady." he chuckled. "Jake got you here just in time, you were well on your way to fiddler's green. But dontcha worry, Good ol' Ice King got ya fixed up real good!" Marceline's mind was still sluggish as she listened to the fast paced words of the man beside her as he helped her sit up, propping her back against a worn pillow.

The old man tittered away as he unwrapped the bindings around her wrists, revealing a ring of lighter flesh than that of her usual mocha skin tone. She quietly noted with a scowl that these were the beginning of scars that would mar her skin for all time. The man wrapped up her wrists with a clean strip of gauze, and moved on to her back. Marceline suddenly noted her lack of shirt, instead being covered by a thick binding of bandages around her chest and abdomen. Waist down, someone-probably the noisy old man- had changed her into a loose pair of breeches, tied off just below the knees. She gave no fight or protest as her chest was unbound, too tired to worry over things as trivial as modesty; she already had her humanity stripped away, what is an old man seeing her body compared to that?

"It's all healing up pretty nicely." The man commented, "Though I can't do anything about scarring. Sorry 'bout that." He walked away to dispose of the bandages, and returned with a bowl of something thick yet soupy. Handing it to his patient, he pulled up a stool beside the bed and took a seat. "Here, eat up. I'm sure you're starvin'. It's porridge, not exactly flavourful, but it'll get somethin' in that stomach of yours. Oh never gave you a proper introduction. Th'name's Simon, but everyone here just calls me 'The Ice King.'" The old man finished with a theatrical bow.

Marceline sat there and stared at the man, considering his spritely demeanor, before allowing herself a tired smile. She studied the porridge before her, bringing a spoonful up to her lips. Simon was right, it was flavourless as bark, but it was food. Empty stomach lurched against ribs, begging for more of the substance to fill it. Spoonful after spoonful disappeared as Marceline shoveled the porridge down her throat, barely stopping to let herself breathe. For his part, Simon sat quietly and watched the starving woman eat, reaching forward to help when she inevitably choked on her meal.

She coughed out the obstruction before Simon could reach her, and his reaching gesture caught in the corner of her eyes was perceived as a threat to her; months aboard the slaver's ship burned the idea into her that reaching hands meant more pain and anguish. Marceline recoiled from the hand with a threatening growl, her face twisting into a frightening grimace. But being as old and experienced as he was, Simon easily picked out the fear hidden deep within the woman's eyes and slowly sat back down, maintaining eye contact with her and showing his empty palms to display no ill-will. The bowl was almost empty when the doctor spoke again.

"For a while there, I really thought you weren't going to make it." He muttered, staring down at the floor between his feet. "Extremely dehydrated, malnourished, sick as a dog? It just didn't look good for you, missy. The infection was the hardest to beat though. Took a full day to get your temperature down to a safe level." His voice was low, almost mournful as he recounted the struggles Marceline had faced in her short time in the sick bay. "For an amount of time, you could barely breathe. But I knew you'd pull through it. You're a fighter, I know that much. The chief's daughter has to be strong." That caught Marceline by surprise, her right hand immediately reaching to cover the tattoo on the opposite arm.

He knew? How could this man know who she was? She hadn't said a word to him, nor any of the crew upon her arrival. Fear and suspicion crept up on her features as she looked back at the old man. Simon apparently caught on to what she was thinking, noting the small movements she made.

"Your arm says it all. The tattoo, I mean." He offered a friendly smile. "The band around the elbow signifies a warrior, and the length and intricacy of the rest notes of a high social standing. That bit right there," Simon pointed to a spot on his arm below his thumb on his wrist. "The small wring there, there's only one. So I assume you're the oldest of your family?"

Marceline stared back at him in shock, confusion etched across her face. Simon just chuckled. "Before I ended up on this here ship, I travelled the world, learning about different cultures. I ended up in a place the locals called_ Ba'nqodr._ Lovely bunch of people."

The name was familiar. Then it hit her; the Bahnti tribe that existed a week's journey away from her home village of Nitos. They were a sister tribe, but the two had little to do with each other when their paths crossed.

"They called me _Bia im… Bia impto'ra. _I think. Something about 'pale.' But I spent time there, and their tattoos looked almost the same as yours. See, they even gave me one!" He spoke excitedly, rolling up the sleeve of his blue tunic to flaunt a small band around his scrawny bicep, the black etchings in his skin marking him as a man of trust, aid, and strength: a Shaman. Her sister tribe trusted this strange man enough to call him Shaman. For an outsider to be welcomed into a tribe like this was near unheard of. But he had done it. If her sister tribe accepted him, then maybe she could.

At that very moment, the meal Marceline had wolfed down finally made full contact with her stomach, its weight bringing back the exhaustion she still felt. She had been fed so now it was time to rest, her body decided as her posture began to slump further. Simon caught on quickly, standing up to ease his patient back into bed.

"Alright, that's enough chit-chat for now." He gently chided. "It's time to rest. My cabin's over that way. If you need anything just holler." as he began to walk away, something pulled at his tunic. Turning around, he found the drowsy woman weakly gripping at the hem. Tired eyes looked to his as Marceline finally spoke to him.

"Ki'a Vostu." she muttered, thanking him the only way she knew how: in her native tongue. The language she had learned during her stay on the slave ship never expressed such sentiments.

Simon looked at her, and gently freed her grip on his shirt, placing it back down at her side, clearly understanding the meaning behind the words.

"Of course, darling." He returned, before leaving Marceline to slip into a deep sleep; one that was finally calm and restful.


End file.
